


nine of wands

by mallory



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Infidelity, Introspection, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18370079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mallory/pseuds/mallory
Summary: “Please don’t leave.” He scrambles to his feet and grabs your hand. Smooth, long fingers curl around yours. Strong hands capable of harm that hold you with such reverence. You never imagined his mouth, intimate and soft, would be the thing that hurt you.





	nine of wands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LovelyMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyMelody/gifts).



> Cristal and I did a one word prompt fic exchange. She gave me _tarots + Sebastian Stan_ (+ hands because she low-key asked for it).
> 
> I decided to draw a tarot card and write a fic from my interpretation.
> 
> [Read her fic for my prompt here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375497)

“We—I kissed her.”

The weight of the night sits on your shoulders like a school bag bursting at the seams with textbooks. And much like the anxious kid you were on your first day of high school, your throat is raw with fear. Your heart is straining against the strings holding it up as the words stumbling out of his mouth each have a go at it.

A punch in the gut.

“… filming for three months…”

A kick to the knee.

“It was a stupid crush…”

A slap across the face.

“… harmless.”

A knife in the heart.

“… wrap up party…”

Deeper.

“We were drunk.”

Twist it.

“I’m so sorry,” Sebastian whispers, words thick and drenched with regret.

You tense, digging rigid fingers into the cushion of the couch. They mean nothing. Not because those simple words do not measure up to the magnitude of his betrayal, or because every fucking sentence is broken up by those goddamn words that they’ve lost all value.

You keep your gaze on the coffee table in front of you. But if later asked of the current items splayed on it, you won’t be able to recall a single fucking thing on here.

“Please. Say something.”

What’s there to say? Your partner of three years grew feelings for someone else, all the while coming home to you with sweet words and loving touches. Something heavy bubbles up your throat as goosebumps crawl along your skin.

You jump to your feet.

“Where—Where are you going?”

You look down at him, for the first time.

His shabby beard, which you found oh, so charming this morning, is ratty. A mess of hair as tangled as the state of your mind. His eyes, gorgeous blue eyes, staring up at you. Wide and pleading, scared and panicked. The restless nights—three since the wrap party—are evident in the bags under his eyes. You thought they were from exhaustion.

You should’ve known. Exhaustion looks like pleased grins and sweat-clumped hair, like sloppy smiles and gentle, droopy eyes.

This? The slump in his shoulders, the finger-tousled hair, the quiver in his chin: this is guilt.

What does he see on your face? The last week you spent tidying up the apartment— _your home_ —in preparation for his return, in your eyes? Or the adoration, joy and _trust_ staining your wrinkles? What about the hurt and anger running down—You lift a hand to your cheek and frown down at dry fingers.

“Please don’t leave.” He scrambles to his feet and grabs your hand. “Not like this, not… You’re scaring me.” His hand is wet—with sweat? Smooth, long fingers curl around yours. Strong hands capable of harm that hold you with such reverence. You never imagined his mouth, intimate and soft, would be the thing that hurt you.

The veins scattered along the back of his hand, like plant roots, bulge as his fingers flex. He lets go and you drop your hand. “[Name], talk to me.”

“Shower,” you say. It’s amazing how flat and dull the one word sounds to your ears, when a whole slew of emotions are clawing their way up your throat, desperate to escape.

You don’t break until you’re stripped down, naked and bare and vulnerable under the warmth of the spray. Your whimpers and soft sobs bounce off the bathroom tiles and amplify your pain back to you, mocking, taunting.

And you can’t breathe. The steam is dense and sticky in your chest, and you strike the tap off with a gasp. You stagger out of the shower and focus on filling your lungs with shaky inhales and mewling exhales. Water drips off your body, each droplet a compassionate caress and silent sympathy on the bathroom mat.

Are you overreacting? After all, he’s kissed a lot of people.

_It was a stupid crush._

No—this one meant something. He wasn’t wearing someone else’s skin, speaking someone else’s words.

_We were drunk._

Your face crumbles.

How did it get to this? Sebastian opened up his chest and made room for you. But is your love, your presence not enough?

You dry yourself off, your towel scratchy against your skin. Wrapping yourself, you step out of the en suite.

His bedside lamp is on, but he’s on your side of the bed, cast in the shadows that refuse to heed the luminescence. His head is bent, hands clasped between his knees. He looks up as you pass, but you keep your eyes trained on the open closet that takes up one side of the wall.

You rifle through your side for sleep clothes. Your palm stutters along the soft fabric of his grey hoodie, and you cling to the sleeve, like you did the morning that news broke about your relationship, and paparazzi bombarded you as soon as you both stepped out of JFK.

He’d asked you the very night before, if you wanted this. Wanted him. If you were ready. You were ready to step out into the world, but nothing could have prepared you for what they had in store for you. The two of you went through a lot in those months. It tested your relationship, it tugged on the strength of your trust until it fractured. But you both retreated, together. And healed, stronger.

Dressed, you hang the damp towel to dry and sink onto his side of the bed.

They were obsessed. Who was this person who had captured Sebastian Stan’s heart? He was protective of your privacy, so they filled in the gaps themselves. Made up stories. Caused trouble.

It was easier to deal with then, because it was you and Sebastian against the world. You had each other to lean on.

Swallowing, you chance a glance at the mirror across the room, reflecting two figures seated on opposite sides of the bed. Sebastian’s form is hunched as he stares at his limp hands. The back of your nose pricks, and you tilt your head back as you close your eyes. Letting out a shaky breath, you prop your hands behind you for balance.

“What are you thinking?” he whispers.

What would happen if you just up and left? Grabbed nothing but your coat and what’s left of your heart and walked out the door? Let him worry all night the way you slept restlessly the night of the party, yearning for his arms around you. Let him wonder if this is it. If she was worth this.

Something brushes your hand, and you jerk.

In the mirror, Sebastian’s reached out, his frown clear in the light as he stares down at your hands.

You turn your head. Hands stark against sheets that’s held up to many nights, alone and together, through pleasure and pain.

Heat surges up your chest, and it’s like your nerves are on fire. It’s too much, and the only thing stopping you from crawling across the bed and burrowing yourself deep inside his chest is your ego. It’s bruised, clutching the string that’s holding your poor heart at bay. Because: “Why?” The word claws through your impossibly tight throat, torn and battered.

He shakes his head and drops to his elbows. Fingers curl around your wrist as trembling lips meet the back of your hand, rough with his beard. A weak bleat puffs against your skin, and the soft cry melts the strings suspending your heart.

You touch the top of his head with your free hand.

Sebastian shudders.

_You’ve made such a mess, baby._

He crawls across the bed to burrow his face into the space between your neck and shoulder. You strain against the awkward position and the weight, of him and of tonight, and fall back against the bed with a soft grunt. Your hands grasp his shoulders. Your biceps clench in preparation to push him away, even as your fingers grip him desperately to pull him closer.

You’re not doing this for him.

This is for you.

Despite the fact that he’s the one who hurt you, there’s no other comfort you seek out more than his.

This won’t break you. You refuse to let it destroy everything you’ve gone through, sacrificed and fought for.

He’s here. He told you.

That has to count for something.

And you need this.

So you allow it. If only just for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’d like to participate or simply send me prompts, join **[my discord server](https://discord.gg/8nbc6Rw)** (note: you’ll need to create an account). There’s also Six Sentence Sundays, and access to (future) exclusive content. If you’re also a writer, you may be interested in channels hosting fic discussions and tips, and a place to link your work for feedback.
> 
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